


My Totally Real Mary Sue Husband Who Lives Back On Cybertron

by oogenesis



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Crossover, Humor, M/M, Old Married Couple, Snooping, bulkhead puts up with a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28573515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oogenesis/pseuds/oogenesis
Summary: “I mean,” said Bumblebee, “Ratchet’slying.”“What makes you think that?” said Prowl.“Uh, hello?  How about everything?”  Bumblebee waved a hand.  “Like, look at the facts!  Ratchet has this conjunx that we’venever heard about, who’s super handsome and also apparently one of the greatest martial artists to ever live?Ratchet?  That grumpy old sack of bolts who’s no treat on the eyes either?  He has to be making it up!  It has big stinking lie written all over it!”
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet
Comments: 26
Kudos: 222
Collections: Secret Solenoid '20-'21





	My Totally Real Mary Sue Husband Who Lives Back On Cybertron

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Soulsteel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soulsteel/gifts).



> Prompt: Ratchet offhandedly mentions he's conjunxed. Bumblebee refuses to believe him. Hijinks ensue.
> 
> YOOOOOO SORRY THIS WAS LATE OMG i was like 3k words into this fic like "i think it'll be about 6k words" and then it ended up like this and i wrote HALF of it last night in a frenzy of deadline meeting i'm wiped. also i'm bad at writing hijinks and i've never written for tfa before so it was all a bunch of ????? but i had a lot of fun writing this nonetheless i hope you enjoy!
> 
> note: i wasn't originally going to use the word conjunx because i don't like mixing up worldbuilding between continuities, but i couldn't think of a better tf-replacement-spouse-word (i didn't like to use "husband" as my go-to because it felt too associated with specific human ideas of marriage, which i feel would be different on cybertron) and ended up getting quite used to using the word conjunx for this fic. however i've also taken a mtmte-style fast and loose approach to not using human words, in the interest of comedy and fluidity of dialogue, so if you see inconsistency there that's why
> 
> note 2: i know a drift exists in the animated universe, but as far as i'm aware only as a single blurb in the allspark almanac. in any case this drift is intended to be my own wholly imagined transplant of the mtmte character (with some tweaks and changes to adjust for the new setting), and any similarities to the animated continuity character are coincidental due to them being based off the same person. his relationship with ratchet is slightly different, because animated ratchet is a different character from mtmte ratchet, but i tried to keep the core character of their romance intact.
> 
> ANYWAY ENJOYYYYYYY

The long range communicator Bulkhead had managed to help get working… well, worked. That was the good news. The bad news was that it required manually inputting a comms code, which meant they couldn’t contact anyone whose comms address wasn’t already in anyone’s contacts log. So it was pretty useless for contacting anyone of note on Cybertron—communication in that area, unfortunately, was going to be a one-way trip. They could, at least, use it for other stuff.

Prowl, in true pretentious loner form, declined to make use of it. Bulkhead spent a while trying to get ahold of his old pals from the energon farm, only to find that half had changed their comms addresses; he still managed to get a few good conversations in, from what Bumblebee could hear while waiting impatiently for his turn. Bumblebee himself tried halfheartedly to reach a few people whose contact information he’d gotten in the past, before giving up because he wasn’t really invested in contacting any of those people anyway. Optimus declined as well, saying he didn’t really have anyone he could think of he’d want to talk to. The most surprising was Ratchet, who when Bumblebee came out of the room it was in heaved himself up off the floor when he’d been sitting, huffed, “Finally,” and disappeared into the room with the communicator.

And then didn’t come out for over an hour.

Bumblebee would have eavesdropped—he wasn’t typically interested in boring old bot business, but when the conversation stretched on and on his curiosity started to get the best of him—except Optimus was making him clean up the common area as punishment for something Bumblebee couldn’t remember, as if he was supposed to keep up with the numerous ways in which he kept breaking Optimus’ arbitrary and boring rules. He was actually still in the middle of cleaning, dejectedly pushing a tiny human-sized mop across the floor, when Ratchet emerged from the communicator room, looking _happy_.

Well, by Ratchet standards, which meant he looked pretty neutral by any other bot’s standards. He wasn’t even frowning—that was almost a _smile_! “Whoa, Ratchet,” Bumblebee called over, making his way over the wet floor, “what’s gotten you so upbeat? Who was that on the other line, anyway?”

“Huh? Oh, that was my conjunx,” said Ratchet, and Bumblebee slipped on the wet floor and landed hard with his heels in the air.

“ _What_?” he demanded, popping back up. “Your _what_?”

“My conjunx,” said Ratchet, heading back into his room. “Let me know when the floor is dry, all right?”

And then the door shut behind him and Bumblebee was left gaping, his rear fender sore.

“Did he just say conjunx?” said Prowl, emerging from Primus knew where. Probably the ceiling or something.

“Can’t be,” said Bumblebee decisively. “I mean, _Ratchet_?”

“No, he did say conjunx,” confirmed Optimus, looking about as confused as Bumblebee felt, then shrugged. “Well, I mean, it’s his business, I guess.”

Sure, it was Ratchet’s business. But Bumblebee was determined to make it Bumblebee’s business as well. A _conjunx_? Ratchet, _married_? It boggled the processor! Being married meant, like, _romance_ and _love_ and fluffy emotions and actually being nice to someone and having someone want to spend time with you, all of which was pretty much the opposite of everything Ratchet had going on. He had to know more!

Ratchet, as it turned out, was not too keen on his knowing more. “Why didn’t you tell me you were conjunxed?!” Bumblebee demanded, cornering him later on as he headed back to his workroom bearing a tray of something small and unidentifiably metallic, and Ratchet looked at him askance and said, “Why would I have to tell you?”

Bumblebee didn’t really have a good answer to that, but his permanently keyed-up reaction prompter demanded he say _something_ , and what it returned was, “Because it’s freaking unbelievable, that’s why!”

Ratchet’s Look intensified. “While I appreciate how hard you find it to believe someone would want to spend any time around me, I have to get these components under a heat lamp before they start to solidify. Now move it.”

Bumblebee did move it, but only to jog alongside him as Ratchet speedwalked back to his workroom. “I still can’t believe you didn’t tell us,” he complained. “We’re your _friends_.”

“Coworkers,” Ratchet corrected—a correction which Bumblebee’s processor compared against all the evidence at hand and immediately discarded. “And that doesn’t mean we have to know everything about each other. _I_ don’t know anything about your life back before joining the space bridge crew, and I’m fine with that. You could at least extend me the same courtesy.”

Yeah, but Bumblebee was _curious_ , and that was what mattered most. “Hey, how come they weren’t on the space bridge crew with you?” he said, realizing the inconsistency. “You just spend time away from them like that?”

“Someday when you’ve been alive for millions of years,” said Ratchet, opening the door to his workroom, “you’ll understand that spending a century or two apart doesn’t really change anything. I had work I wanted to do. He had travel he wanted to do. We still communicate throughout. Are you done?”

He was going to let the door shut, but Bumblebee wedged his foot component into the gap, sensing a conversational in. “Yeah, but we were offline for fifty years,” he said. “You couldn’t have been comming him in your sleep. Wasn’t he worried?”

“He was,” said Ratchet shortly. “I let him know I was okay on the call just now, and we caught up. All cleared up now. Are you going to remove your foot from my door, or do I have to engage the hinges automatically and crush it?”

“You wouldn’t do that,” said Bumblebee, “you’re our _medic_ ,” but he hastily slipped his foot to safety nonetheless. The door clanged shut on Ratchet’s ever-sour face.

Conjunxed. _Him_. Someone had looked at that bot and decided they wanted to spend the whole rest of their life with him. At least in the general sense, if apparently not in the literal one.

“I still can’t believe it,” said Bumblebee to the ceiling from where he was sprawled over the couch. “I mean, I _guess_ if like Optimus or Prowl had a secret sweetheart they never told us about, I’d be able to buy it. But _Ratchet_? Of all bots? How come _he_ has someone and _I_ don’t?”

“I mean, he _is_ , what… five times older than we are? Ten?” Bulkhead was attempting to whittle something out of scrap lumber. It was still, for the moment, an unrecognizable lump of wood. “That means he’s had five or ten or whatever times as much time to get a date as we have.” He scratched his head. “So basically his odds have been multiplied by—”

“All _right_ , okay, spacebridge nerd,” said Bumblebee, flapping a hand at him. “But _my_ natural charm and handsomeness should have netted me an admirer by now regardless of how long Ratchet’s been around!”

“Didn’t you say the other day you don’t see the point of dating?” said Bulkhead, lifting his carving to carefully scrape at the bottom.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Bumblebee decisively. “I’ve lost to _Ratchet_.”

“I don’t think it’s a race,” said Bulkhead, brushing sawdust off his lap. “Most bots never even get conjunxed at all.”

Bumblebee contemplated this. “Whatever,” was his verdict. “I bet his conjunx is old and ugly like he is, anyway.”

As it turned out, he had the opportunity to test that hypothesis later. He’d been in the middle of trying to beat his high score on Dungeon Dark 5, when Bulkhead said something to Optimus about dismantling the long-distance communicator for spare parts, if they didn’t think they were going to use it again, and that reminded Bumblebee of the whole thing. As soon as he finished the level (without managing to beat his high score, ugh) he turned to Ratchet and said, “Hey, Ratchet!”

“What,” said Ratchet.

“Can we see a picture of your conjunx?”

Optimus perked up. “I’m curious too,” he admitted. “What does he look like?”

“None of your business,” grunted Ratchet. 

Optimus shrugged and went back to his conversation with Bulkhead, but Bumblebee was not to be so easily deterred. “Why are you being so cagey? Is his existence some big secret or something?”

“No,” said Ratchet, folding his arms, “but I think I’m allowed to have a private life without you annoying kids demanding to stick your nose in it.”

“It’s not normal to be so secretive,” grumbled Bumblebee.

“If you wanna call it secretive, then sure.”

Bumblebee remembered his earlier hypothesis, and sat up straighter with inspiration. “Is he really ugly? I bet that’s it! I bet he’s super ugly and you don’t want us to know!”

“Oh, for the love of—Fine!” said Ratchet, and popped up a holo display from his forearm, holding it out. “Here! Happy?”

Bumblebee leaned in. So did Bulkhead, and Optimus, and Prowl. The picture had been taken on a planet Bumblebee didn’t recognize, with two suns in the sky and another ringed planet looming large behind clouds. The landscape was barren and rocky with bizarre twisted-looking stone formations laced throughout, and in the foreground, on the edge of a cliff overlooking it all, was a Cybertronian, holding an arm out to indicate the view and wearing a dazzling smile.

Speedster type. White plating. Pretty unique helmet design, with the pointy bits. Bumblebee counted at least five different sword hilts sticking out from various holsters on his person. Red markings swirled up his arms and legs in form-flattering curves, and he was actually really, uh…

“Wow,” said Optimus blankly. “He’s handsome.”

“You sound surprised,” grumped Ratchet, and shut off the display. 

“No, no,” said Optimus quickly, “just, um, happy for you. Nice catch. What planet was that? I didn’t recognize the satellite.”

“Tetronus VI,” said Ratchet. “Apparently the rock formations there channel cosmic energy in a way that ‘enhances internal Cybertronian energy flow’”—with air quotes. “Don’t know why he still buys into that scrap, but at least he seemed to have a good time there.”

“He looked young,” said Bumblebee accusingly. “Are you a protoform-cradle-robber, Ratchet?”

“Hardly,” sniffed Ratchet. “He’s my age. Got a full-body overhaul a while back, though, so the wear hasn’t set in as much yet.” He visibly tripped over his words, just for a single moment. “I mean.”

“Wow,” said Bulkhead, “so he fought in the war?”

“Who wasn’t fighting in the war back then?” said Ratchet. “Are you people done?”

Prowl had a hand on his chin in thought, because he was all think-y and pretentious and needed to signal to other bots when he was thinking so they’d know he was smart. It was only after the gathering had dispersed that he said to Bumblebee and Bulkhead, “That conjunx of his looks familiar.”

“Huh?” said Bumblebee, “you’ve met him?”

“No,” said Prowl, “I don’t think that’s the case,” and then held up a finger. “One moment, I need to run a cross-reference in my memory files.”

And then he went all still and quiet while the program ran. Bumblebee and Bulkhead exchanged dubious/mystified looks, and then Prowl said, “Hmm. Interesting,” and blinked back into focus.

“So?” said Bumblebee. “You gonna tell us where you’ve seen him before?”

“The Cyber-Ninja temple houses busts of some of the most famed and talented disciples of the program,” said Prowl. “I saw them often; I would visit their displays for motivation when my training felt too difficult to overcome. One of the busts was of this bot.”

“Huh,” said Bulkhead. “Wow.”

“He was of the swordsbot division,” said Prowl. “To hear tell of it, he undertook the graduate ritual of defeating all one’s teachers in combat, with a twist—he took them all on _simultaneously_ , and won. His frame has changed somewhat due to upgrades, but his face was still a reliable match.”

“And that’s Ratchet’s conjunx?” said Bulkhead, sounding a tad awestruck.

Prowl dipped his head. “It would seem so.”

“All right,” said Bumblebee decisively, “I declare bullshit.”

Both of them turned to look at him. “What do you mean?” said Prowl.

“I mean,” said Bumblebee, “Ratchet’s _lying_.”

“What makes you think that?” said Prowl.

“Uh, hello? How about everything?” Bumblebee waved a hand. “Like, look at the facts! Ratchet has this conjunx that we’ve _never heard about_ , who’s super handsome and also apparently one of the greatest martial artists to ever live? _Ratchet_? That grumpy old sack of bolts who’s no treat on the eyes either? He has to be making it up! It has big stinking lie written all over it!”

“Huh,” said Bulkhead, visibly digesting the information. “Why would he do that, though?”

“To sound cooler, _duh_ ,” said Bumblebee. “Isn’t it obvious? Why else would anyone make up something like that?”

“Have you considered,” said Prowl, “that Ratchet is not nearly so image-obsessed as you are?”

“Maybe not usually.” Bumblebee was not to be dissuaded. “But it’s sure looking to me like he finally got tired of being so old and boring and uncool around the rest of us cool badass bots and started looking for ways to spice up his image.”

Bulkhead appeared to think about it some more, then said, “Well, if he is lying, what does that have to do with us?” At Bumblebee’s splutter of outrage, he added, “I mean, yeah, yeah, lying’s bad and all especially when you’re doing it to make yourself look better, but I don’t really feel like getting as worked up about it as you are.”

“You are,” agreed Prowl, “devoting an unusual amount of emotional energy to this topic.” He eyed Bumblebee thoughtfully. “Do you still feel as though Ratchet has somehow beaten you by becoming conjunxed?”

Bumblebee shot Bulkhead an accusatory look. “You told him about that conversation?”

“No,” said Prowl, “I was eavesdropping.”

“Ugh,” said Bumblebee, and turned away from him. “Whatever. Anyway, the _point_ is that Ratchet is for sure lying. And I’m going to prove it.”

“Great,” said Bulkhead blandly. “How?”

“Detective work,” said Bumblebee, “ _obviously._ It’s been ages since I had a good excuse to snoop around here!”

Prowl looked down his nose at him, gave an almost pitying sigh, and made himself scarce. Not to be dismayed, Bumblebee turned to Bulkhead. “And _you’re_ going to help me.”

Bulkhead scratched his head as he considered it. “Sure,” he decided, “why not.”

Not quite the enthusiasm level Bumblebee was looking for, but he could work with this.

***

The first order of business was, naturally, to raid Ratchet’s room.

Or maybe workshop. Office? Bumblebee wasn’t really sure _what_ to call the factory room that Ratchet had claimed as his own private space, the way they all had when they first arrived here. It was definitely where he stored various clutter that for one reason or another wasn’t needed in the unofficially christened medbay (that had once been an offloading dock for trucks). It was also where he kept what few personal items he’d moved off the Autobot ship, which Bumblebee was determined to take full advantage of.

The time came when Ratchet and Optimus were away at some very official meeting involving the diplomatic relationship between the visiting Autobots and the city of Detroit. Bumblebee and Bulkhead weren’t invited along on those nearly as much these days, since they both had a tendency towards foot-in-mouth disease, but Bumblebee had quite enthusiastically volunteered to stay home just in case that tendency didn’t come through this time.

“Now’s our chance,” he said to Bulkhead, once the sound of engines had faded out of earshot of the base, and Bulkhead looked up from his paper-mache sculpture and said, “What?”

Bumblebee bonked him on the arm with a loud clang. “We’re going to snoop around in Ratchet’s stuff, numbskull!”

“Oh,” said Bulkhead, looking back down at his sculpture, and prodding a sagging bit of it back into shape with what Bumblebee thought was probably a bit too much optimism. He still had no idea what the sculpture was supposed to represent. “Isn’t that against the rules?”

“What rules,” said Bumblebee.

“Uh, basic politeness?”

“You’re such a spoilsport,” grumbled Bumblebee. “Don’t you want to find out if Ratchet’s conjunx is real or not?”

“I guess?” said Bulkhead, and his sculpture chose that moment to collapse in on itself with a soft wet unpleasant noise. Bulkhead stared forlornly at it for a moment, and shrugged. “Well, I guess I don’t have anything else to do right now.”

Ratchet’s room, like any of the other rooms in this factory, didn’t lock. Bumblebee strolled right inside, Bulkhead picking his way cautiously behind him, and took a look around.

“Hmm,” he said.

It was pretty standard. A shelf held what were for the most part neatly sorted mechanical components and fiddly bits that Bumblebee, not being a medic, didn’t recognize. A bigger bin held more of those, less neatly sorted and probably of less importance. Several human-sized mattresses had been arranged in one side of the room as a sort of easy chair, probably to rest his creaky old bone struts, with a few datapads piled up next to it; a few empty oil cans sat piled in a corner.

“Are you going to go through _all_ his stuff,” said Bulkhead a bit plaintively.

“Of course,” said Bumblebee, “how else am I supposed to make sure I find what I need to find?” And with that, he dove into the bin of spare components, arms first. 

It wasn’t a productive search. The stuff seemed to be a jumble of Cybertronian—brought over from the ship, no doubt—and human engine parts, all of which left an unattractive mess of grease and oil smears all over Bumblebee’s arms. Bulkhead joined him, occasionally providing unhelpful commentary on what a certain part did—“Oh, a diametric laser focus! Good for precision cutting, I guess you’d use those in medicine too”—and helping him to lift some of the bigger stuff out of the way, but by the end of it, everything in the bin had been thoroughly turned over and Bumblebee was forced to conclude they’d found nothing of interest.

Next order of business was obviously to look under the mattresses that made up Ratchet’s chair. Halfway through Bumblebee gingerly lifting up the bottommost one, Bulkhead said, “What are we even looking for?”

“Proof that he’s lying, _duh_ ,” said Bumblebee.

“Sure,” said Bulkhead, “but what would that look like? You think he’s going to leave a note lying around that just says _I’m lying_?”

Bumblebee had to admit that sounded pretty stupid, but then inspiration hit. “Maybe not a note. But a diary! Something like, _Earth date August 15th 2055: Today I had the great idea to make up a fake conjunx, blah blah blah,_ and boom, we’ve caught him!”

Bulkhead was _still_ skeptical. “You think Ratchet would keep a _diary_?”

“A journal, then,” said Bumblebee, and at that moment the room brightened as the sun came out from behind the clouds. “Hey,” said Bulkhead, pointing at the wall, “what’s what?”

It was a pattern of multicolored shards of light, scattered over the wall like little diamonds. Turning slowly around the room, Bumblebee could see the same iridescent sparkles projected over most other surfaces in it; a pretty, harmonizing touch intensely at odds with the utilitarian bareness of the rest of the room. A moment later he spotted the crystal sitting on a windowsill that was projecting the light; he and Bulkhead headed toward it.

“Wow,” said Bulkhead, picking it up very carefully. It was a shaped like a multifaceted orb sitting in a nest of sharp narrow spikes, fastened to a polished metal base. “That’s really pretty.”

“Be _careful,_ ” said Bumblebee tensely, all too aware of Bulkhead’s track record around fragile objects, and reached out to take it from him. As he lifted it up he spotted writing engraved on the underside of the base. “Hey, what’s what say?”

He turned it over, and Bulkhead crowded in close to read.

_Hey, Ratch! Picked this up as a souvenir on Vallitrex, made from the magna-crystals native to the planet. It’s supposed to split light in wavelengths that tune your aura to induce harmony and reduce stress, which I think you could do with, although I know you don’t care about that haha. It’s also very beautiful, although you probably don’t care about that either. But even if it’s no other use to you I hope you look at it and think of me, or don’t, whatever fits your fancy :^) When you’re done with your centa-shift on Cadeucia I can show you around Vallitrex, the locals are really nice and I’ve had some fun adventures here. See you then! Love, Drift._

Bumblebee finished reading first, then Bulkhead; they both looked at each other.

“Well,” said Bulkhead. “This sure doesn’t look to me like proof that he’s lying about being married.”

Bumblebee had to admit things were not looking too good for his hypothesis. But was he a bot who would admit to being wrong? No! He’d make reality submit to him instead, damn it! “You can’t say that,” he argued. “Maybe this Drift person is just a friend.”

“They signed it _love._ ”

“People do that all the time!” Bumblebee was seized with inspiration. “Hey, Prowl,” he called, poking his head out the door, “I have a question!”

“One moment,” called Prowl’s distant voice, and a moment later he appeared in front of them, dropping soundlessly down from the ceiling. Showoff. “What is it?”

“The bot you saw the bust of, who’s _supposedly_ Ratchet’s conjunx,” said Bumblebee. “Was his name Drift?”

Prowl tilted his head. “No,” he said after a moment. “It was not.”

“There,” said Bumblebee, massively relieved, “see! This isn’t even his _supposed_ conjunx! It’s just some random friend of his who sends him souvenirs!”

“Huh,” said Bulkhead, contemplating the situation, then shrugged. “Well, okay then. We’d better put this back,” he said to Bumblebee. The factory windows were high up, and Bumblebee couldn’t actually reach the windowsill the crystal had been on—Ratchet had probably stood on something—so he had to nervously watch Bulkhead put the crystal back in the hopes that his typical clumsiness wouldn’t result in disaster.

Fortunately, all went well on that front.

“I think we’re done here,” said Bulkhead, “let’s leave Ratchet’s stuff alone for now,” and Bumblebee conceded. When he thought about it, they were no closer to a conclusion than they had been before searching the room, but Bumblebee had gotten to score a point over Bulkhead’s excessive willingness to believe that Ratchet was in fact married. He’d take it.

***

It was some days later that Bumblebee had his next idea.

It was dark and raining out, which was the kind of atmosphere that regardless of species lent itself to organisms gathering in close-knit groups. The Autobots were all camped out in the living room, each at their own tasks; Optimus reading over some documents from the human Detroit fire department about the terms of their collaboration, Bulkhead making an adventurous foray into watercolors, Bumblebee playing video games. Ratchet was dozing, and Prowl was meditating, which Bumblebee was pretty sure was a fancy word for dozing.

“Hey, hey,” said Bumblebee, pausing the game and stretching out his legs, “how about we play Truth or Dare?”

“What’s that?” said Bulkhead.

“Human party game,” said Bumblebee. “Sari taught me. It’s like a human version of Controls Off, except there aren’t different levels to it and you don’t need to use your random number generators.” He frowned in thought. “Huh. Probably explains why humans play it that way. Anyway, wanna give it a whirl?”

“Why not,” said Optimus, and Prowl said, “Very well.” Ratchet grunted and said “Sure,” which was just what Bumblebee had been hoping for.

He explained the rules, which didn’t take long, and they got going. It took a while until Ratchet got a turn where Bumblebee could ask him anything, and in the meantime he was made to try to give Prowl a high five while Prowl put all his ninja abilites into not letting him land it, watched Optimus pile more and more objects from the living room into his trailer until it nearly exploded, and learned that if Bulkhead could have any other vehicle mode he wouldn’t mind being a submarine, because he’d always thought underwater environments were pretty neat. Finally they got to Ratchet, who suspiciously eyed the internal dents in Optimus’ trailer and said, “Truth.”

Bumblebee pounced like a cat on a laser dot. “How did you meet your conjunx,” he said, really fast so that Ratchet would be caught the most off guard possible.

Ratchet gave him the stinkeye, appeared to just barely hesitate, and said, “He was my patient.”

Bumblebee gleefully made a note of the hesitation. A liar’s tic! “Isn’t it inappropriate to date your patients?” he wondered.

Ratchet waved him away. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“Complicated how?”

“You only get one question per turn, kid.”

Deflection! Bumblebee was feeling very smug. The game continued, with Prowl successfully snatching a glass bottle out of the air without breaking it a moment before it hit the floor, an outraged Optimus spluttering that _no_ , he didn’t think Megatron was handsome, what kind of question was _that_ , and Bumblebee being forced to admit that he’d had to manually write a script in his processor to help him differentiate right from left otherwise he still got them mixed up sometimes. When the game came back around to Ratchet, he wasted no time in picking “Dare”.

Bumblebee was ready for that. “I dare you to tell me what your conjunx does for a living.”

Ratchet gave him an even more intense stinkeye. “Odd jobs,” he said. “Much like me, before I got landed with you guys on this planet.”

Bulkhead elbowed Bumblebee, nearly knocking him over from the Bulkhead-typical amount of strength behind it. “Um, I don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to play the game.”

“Agreed,” said Optimus, “Bumblebee, no more trying to rig the questions,” so Bumblebee subsided, nursing the meager collection of data he’d managed to gather. All in all, he was quite satisfied with it. Ratchet had met his conjunx in the course of doing his job, which was also by far the most likely way for him to meet another bot? His conjunx did a totally nondescript and nonspecific thing for a living, which was coincidentally the exact same thing Ratchet did? Those were the most generic and obvious answers possible! He had to be lying!

Plus, the bot Prowl had described—the highly accomplished swordsman, one of the most talented graduates of the Cyber Ninja Corps—sounded exciting and unique and totally at odds with such boring generic descriptions. Even more proof. Not that the Cyber Ninja guy had the right name in the first place!

Wait—now he’d confused himself. Anyway, he probably should have asked Ratchet for his conjunx’ name when he had the chance.

Still, Bumblebee was feeling pretty pleased with himself. At least until Bulkhead dared him to lick the bottom of his foot component, at which point Bumblebee stopped feeling significantly pleased about much of anything.

***

After that Bumblebee did not have time to think about Ratchet’s definitely imaginary conjunx, because the specter of shenanigans raised its head once more. This particular adventure debuted while he was out of the base, helping the humans fix a bunch of downed electrical pylons alongside Bulkhead, and when he returned it was to find half the crisis already elapsed, but long story short it seemed to involve yet another shady businessman, a kidnapping that Sari hadn’t quite realized was a kidnapping even as it happened to her, drastic misuse of the Allspark key, and an end result of a giant monster made out of a lumpy person-shaped conglomeration of car parts stamping up and down the streets, wreaking havoc.

Because life could never be quiet when you were camped out on a squishy alien planet dealing with the unexpected prolongation of a long-dead war.

“Over here, you big sack of rust,” he called, and fired his stingers as the tottering behemoth’s head creaked towards him, which predictably did absolutely nothing. It did, however, distract the thing’s dregs of consciousness long enough for one of Optimus’s grappling hooks to tear through its shoulder, pulling off its arm which thundered to the ground in a shower of spare parts.

And that would have been fantastic, if not for the fact that the monster immediately sucked up a bunch of debris from its rampage to re-form the arm and continued on its merrily smashing way.

Which was about what had been happening for the past half hour.

“ _Ugh_ ,” said Bumblebee, actually stamping his foot in frustration, because what the hell, couldn’t things just be easy for once? They were trying to keep it away from the hospital in the center of town, but had only managed to slow its progress so far; the fateful collision was inevitable. “Ratchet,” he called through his comms system, reaching out for the mental click of connection with Ratchet’s own comms dock, “how’s evacuating the patients going?”

“ _Slowly,_ ” Ratchet’s voice crackled back. “ _The ones who are on life support or hooked up to other heavy machinery can’t be moved so easily. It’s going to take a lot of time—_ ”

The monster smashed through the roof of a department store, with civilians fleeing in all directions. Bumblebee had gotten very used to the sight of fleeing human civilians, since waking up on Earth. They always made things harder—you had to be careful not to step on them. “I don’t think we have a lot of time,” he said, and readied his stingers again, watching Bulkhead spinning his wrecking ball in a windup like a lasso. Maybe he could time their attacks together—

There was the sound of engines revving from behind the junk giant. Bumblebee turned—a piece of roof had fallen off a building where the monster had smashed it in, creating a slant, and as he watched a red-and-white racecar shot off the slope and sailed into the air on the momentum of its acceleration, glinting against the sun.

“Um,” he said.

There was the unmistakable metallic shuffling sound of a Cybertonian transforming, nearly lost in the clanking and creaking of metal debris as the junk giant turned. Bumblebee didn’t actually get to see who the newcomer transformed into, because they were already moving too fast to make out, darting around the junk giant’s body in a red-and-white blur as the thing tried fruitlessly to follow their speed. One by one, parts started to fall off, clanging to the ground; there was the flash and slice of metal at each site.

“It doesn’t work that way,” called Bulkhead, who like Bumblebee had paused in his combat efforts and was now just watching the spectacle. “It’ll reform—”

“No, wait,” said Prowl, who had stowed away his throwing stars and was watching alongside them. “I think they’re onto something.”

The interloper was, in fact, hacking away at the monster faster than it could reform, whittling away at its limbs without pause; showers of spare parts falling lifeless to the ground around them. The giant tottered; sank to one disintegrating knee; shuddered closer and closer to the ground with every passing moment. Bumblebee and the other Autobots stepped nervously back away from the rain as the figure raised what looked like a huge sword in a high leap—drove it down into the center of the monster where the rudimentary glimmerings of a proto-spark lay—there was a spark-blue flash like lightning and them the rumble and bloom of an explosion like the following thunder, knocking them all on their fenders.

“Holy bolts,” wheezed Bumblebee. There was a lot more stuff on fire than there’d been a moment ago. A graceful silhouette disengaged itself from the conflagration, landed with a precise tap of feet before them, and sheathed its swords one by one.

“Hi,” said the new bot, with a dazzling smile. “You guys are the Autobot resistance on Earth, I take it?”

He looked handsome, and indimidating, and stylishly scorched from the fireball he’d just escaped. And familiar. Oh, shit, realized Bumblebee, with the dawning embarrassment of being probably proven wrong, he looked like that picture Ratchet had shown them, of the bot who was supposedly his conjunx.

“Um, yes, we are,” said Optimus, stepping forward, but looking a little wary as he did so. It was only then that Bumblebee registered that the newcomer didn’t have a faction badge visible anywhere on his body. “Thanks for the help. And you are…?”

“Just passing through,” said the new bot airily, not looking at Optimus; he was turning this way and that in place, peering around as though looking for someone. “This isn’t all of you. Where’s—” 

And then there was the rumble of tires and the familiar shape of an ambulance emerged from the smoke. Ratchet drove to a stop in front of them, transformed with a cough of smoke-laden exhaust, and looked accusingly at the interloper. “You didn’t think to tell me in advance you’d be coming?”

“Ratchet!” beamed the new bot, crossing over to him in two quick steps and throwing his arms around him before the astonished eyes of the other Autobots. “It’s been ages!” He pulled away enough to look Ratchet in the eyes, hands on his shoulders. “You missed my big entrance!”

“Maybe if you’d _told me in advance,_ ” grumbled Ratchet.

“I couldn't reach you at first because my parole officer was being a pain in the afterburner about it,” said the newcomer, “and after that I wanted it to be a surprise. And look at you! Surprised!”

“Oh,” said Optimus, catching on—or just recognizing him from the picture. “You must be, um…”

“Yep,” said Ratchet, turning to the rest of them. “My conjunx, everyone. Drift, say hi.”

“Aww,” said Drift, pinching Ratchet’s cheek, “you told them about me? I’m flattered, Ratty!”

“I _told_ you,” said Ratchet, disengaging himself, “ _not to call me that._ ”

Bulkhead was looking steadily at Bumblebee out of the corner of his optics, wearing an expression that Bumblebee couldn’t interpret because he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of looking back at him. In his spark, he conceded defeat.

***

“Nice place,” said Drift, looking around appreciatively. “An alien factory, huh? You guys have really livened up the place. I can feel the positive energies in here like no one’s business.”

“Thanks,” said Bulkhead eagerly. “See that couch? Wasn’t easy, I can tell you, all the building materials on this planet are so small—”

Optimus had stayed behind at the scene of the disaster to help with immediate cleanup. Prowl had perched on one of the chairs and was sipping a can of refined coolant, quietly watching Drift take in their humble abode. Ratchet was also watching Drift get acquainted, arms folded and face frowny as usual as if he wasn’t even happy his conjunx was there, what the hell, although to be fair he always looked that way. Bulkhead had taken the task of hospitality upon himself. And Bumblebee…

…was sulking.

He’d been so sure of his hypothesis, that Ratchet was lying. He’d been so certain there was no _way_ a bot like Ratchet could have netted… well, a bot like Drift. And yet he had! And here was Bumblebee, charismatic and daring and the fastest thing on wheels (more or less), still without a date!

Not that he cared about dating. But he cared about Ratchet _beating_ him.

“Yeah, so,” Drift was saying, “it’s been great meeting you guys, but I haven’t seen Ratchet in almost a century and he’s my conjunx, do you guys have anywhere we could talk privately?”

“Sure,” said Ratchet, unfolding his arms and taking by the wrist. “This way. Be back in a bit,” he said to the remaining Autobots, and disappeared down the hallway.

Bumblebee and Bulkhead looked at each other. Prowl sipped his coolant.

“Well,” said Bumblebee, getting up and stretching, “time to get sneaky.”

“You want us to spy on them?” said Bulkhead, very dubiously. Geez, couldn’t the guy have a little faith in Bumblebee for once?

“ _I’m_ going to spy on them,” corrected Bumblebee, “no offense, but you really don’t know how to be stealthy,” and sped after the retreating couple. Prowl wouldn’t have taught him to move silently if he’d known Bumblebee would use it for evil like this, haha! He followed them to one of the empty factory rooms—as luck would have it, it had one of those window openings into the hallway high up, and Bumblebee made a leap and managed to pull himself up onto the sill and peer through just as the door of the room closed, heavy and ponderous.

As soon as it did the easygoing smile melted right off Drift’s face. “Ratch,” he breathed, and pulled Ratchet into a tight hug, like the one from before but quieter and fiercer. Ratchet returned it, this time, and they stood like that for a moment. “I _missed_ you, beloved.”

Bumblebee nearly fell off the sill. Not that he didn’t know they were dating at this point, but _beloved_? Someone calling their grouchy, unpersonable medic _beloved_? It was surreal!

“Me too,” said Ratchet quietly. “It’s been… what, nearly a century since we last saw each other?”

“Definitely one of the longer separations,” said Drift, still holding him close. “I’m glad to see you again.” He released Ratchet to look him in the eye, hands on his shoulders. “How have you been holding up against Megatron?”

Ratchet grumbled a little. “Well enough.”

Drift shook his head. “ _Megatron,_ ” he echoed, as though marveling. “I swear, _I’m_ supposed to be the intrepid warrior here, and yet it feels like every time I turn my back you end up in yet another situation that’s liable to give me spark failure.” He gave Ratchet a little shake, albeit an affectionate one. “Try to remember you’re a noncombattant and not go up against warlords I wouldn’t have been able to take on even at the height of my reign of terror, okay?”

“Sure, I’ll try,” said Ratchet. “But there are people who need my help.”

Drift sighed. “Of course,” he said. “There always are.” He knocked on Ratchet’s chest plating, right above his spark. “You’ve got a big spark,” he said. “Always wanting to save people, it’s what I love you for. I wouldn’t be here without it. But with all this worrying for others, try to remember there are people who worry about you too, all right?”

“All right,” said Ratchet quietly, and then groused, “But you act like I’m about to fall apart at any moment. I can handle myself.”

“Maybe if you took better care of yourself,” said Drift, tweaking a hinge in Ratchet’s elbow that creaked loudly, “self-sacrificing old pile of bolts.”

“You think this self-sacrificing old pile of bolts can’t handle Megatron?”

“I _know_ that _I_ can’t handle Megatron,” said Drift, utterly serious, “and I’m not the noncombatant between us. Just…” he sighed. “Be careful, okay, Ratch?”

“All right,” sighed Ratchet, “I will,” and then Drift kissed him, cupping his face in his hands as Ratchet turned his head up to receive it. They held the contact for a moment, while Bumblebee tried to absorb the sheer surreality of _Ratchet kissing someone_ , and then separated.

In lighter tones Drift said, “Hey, you can’t blame a bot for worrying, can you? I couldn’t reach you at all for _fifty years_. I’m allowed a bit of protectiveness after all that.”

Ratchet sighed ruefully, as if he hadn’t planned to be stuck in stasis at the bottom of an alien lake for half a century either. Which… he hadn’t. None of them had. “You would have known I was alive, though,” he pointed out. “The sparkbond—”

Bumblebee’s grip on the windowsill faltered; he slipped and fell to the ground with a loud echoing crash. A _sparkbond_? Like, an actual for real _sparkbond_? The whole soulmates, life commitment, two-bodies-one-soul kind of connection? With _Ratchet?!_

While he was still boggling at the level of sheer _romance_ that had somehow entered his life in the guise of a grouchy old medic with no people skills, the door to the room banged open and Bumblebee found himself face to face with the pointy end of a sword. “Uh,” he said desperately, and scrambled to raise his hands in a _no attacky please_ gesture. “I didn’t do it?”

A very scary-looking Drift was staring him down at the other end of the sword. “Eavesdropping is rude,” he said pleasantly, but the kind of pleasant that felt like it was trailing a cold electric touch down Bumblebee’s spinal cables. The tip of the sword was so sharp that Bumblebee’s sensation network was already registering small-scale damage reports just from it brushing under his chin. “Mind explaining why you were hanging out right where me and Ratchet were having a _private conversation?_ ”

Bumblebee was one hundred percent convinced he was going to die painfully on the spot and might have started leaking oil a little, but Ratchet simply sighed heavily through his nose and put a hand on Drift’s wrist. “Stop _posturing,_ ” he said. “We all know you’re not going to slice up my friends.”

“Yeah, but I sure managed to scare him a little,” muttered Drift, slipping the sword gracefully back into his sheath. Ratchet turned his disapproving gaze to Bumblebee. 

“Well, you heard him,” he said. “Eavesdropping is rude.”

“Yes,” said Bumblebee, nodding quickly, and very keen not to get sliced up. “Definitely. Won’t do it again, sir.”

“Kids these days,” huffed Ratchet, hooking a hand under the back of Bumblebee’s helmet plating and hauling him up like a kitten. “All right, let’s get back to the others, I guess, since we were so _rudely interrupted._ ”

Bumblebee was shamefacedly towed back to the common area, where Optimus had arrived. “Oh, there you are,” he said when they emerged from the hallway, then his eyes narrowed at Bumblebee. “Bumblebee,” he said, in a voice that, thanks to watching human TV with Sari, Bumblebee had come to think of as his Disappointed Dad voice. “What did you do now?”

“Eavesdropped on me and Drift trying to have a private conversation,” grunted Ratchet, letting go of Bumblebee with a push so that he stumbled forward into the room. “Rude little shit.”

“He threatened me with his sword!” complained Bumblebee, rubbing the back of his head where Ratchet had dragged him. “And it was freaking sharp, too!”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have gone snooping,” said Drift, folding his arms, while Optimus gave a sigh and visibly elected to ignore the whole situation.

“That, uh, sure is a lot of swords you have,” he said. There were in effect a significant number of hilts and sheaths sticking out from various places on Drift’s body. “Good job there on the junk monster, by the way. We’d probably have lost a great deal of civilian lives if you hadn’t saved the situation.”

“Well, I try,” said Drift breezily. “Putting my skills to good use is kind of my thing nowadays. Within high command's jurisdiction, that is.”

“Your Cyber Ninja training?” said Prowl, unfolding himself from the couch and making his catlike way over.

“Among others,” said Drift, with an easy grin. “I’d wager I know more schools of combat than planets you’ve been to.” (“Showoff,” coughed Ratchet.) “You trained for the Corps yourself, didn’t you?”

“Indeed,” said Prowl, looking slightly humbled. “It is an honor to meet such a…” He stumbled over his words. “Such a famous graduate.”

Drift’s smile flickered a moment, then was back. “Well, now, I wouldn’t say famous,” he said. “Dai Atlas, Star Saber… now those are some household names. But you bots have really been taking on Megatron with only the firepower of a civilian repair crew? And survived?” He looked around at the Autobots, gave a low whistle. “Now that’s way more impressive than me spending a few centuries learning how to use a sword right.”

Bumblebee squinted, trying to figure out if that was a backhanded compliment, but Optimus seemed to take it at face value. “Thank you,” he said, and then, ruefully, “The Elite Guard doesn’t have much respect for our efforts down here, unfortunately.”

“Not surprising, since the Elite Guard are a bunch of self-righteous snobs,” said Drift cheerfully, and Bumblebee had to restrain a snort into his fist. “Except maybe Jazz. I like Jazz.” He took a seat on the couch, reclining comfortably. “I got to… eh… let’s say I got to see his combat skills in action during the war. Great fighter, that one. I have a lot of respect for him.”

“Did you really fight in the war?” said Bulkhead, deploying his back kibble and seating himself down on it opposite the couch. “You don’t look nearly as old as Ratchet or Ultra Magnus.”

“Neither does Jazz,” said Drift. “It’s all about the right kind of physical upkeep, you know?” Ratchet elbowed him. “Although I did get reformatted a few centuries back. Nice new body and everything—”

“Your _nice new body_ is older than most of the bots here,” interjected Ratchet.

“Oh wow, really? Time flies! Although, hey,” Drift nudged Ratchet conspiratorially, “I guess that means our relationship is older than most of the bots here too, huh?” He slipped an arm around Ratchet and squeezed with exaggerated affection, winking at the assembled Autobots. “We’re an example to the youth, Ratchet. A role model of long-lasting marriages.”

“You stop that,” was Ratchet’s devastatingly romantic response, batting at Drift to get off of him; which he did, resettling himself onto the couch with a grin.

“How did you two meet?” said Bulkhead. “It must have been during the war, right?”

“Ah, it’s a very dramatic and thrilling story,” said Drift, resting his arms along the top of the couch. “Picture a battlefield—picture an ultra-grenade landing right—”

“They don’t know what that is,” said Ratchet. To his audience he said shortly, “Type of battlefield projectile. Nasty piece of work, 500-meter blast radius with extra shrapnel, I had dozens of patients die on my table because of those things.”

“Right, that,” said Drift breezily. “The thing went off, and I was in harm’s way—”

“—because why obey orders when you can show off instead,” interjected Ratchet pointedly.

“Yeah, and if I’d obeyed orders I wouldn’t have met you, and you’d have been single and lonely forever,” said Drift, sticking out his tongue, and Ratchet made a rude gesture at him in return. “So there I was, lying among the wounded, on the verge of death, and lo and behold like a mecha-angel sent from the Allspark, Ratchet showed up with his medical kit.”

“This mecha-angel can still point to where you nearly gouged his underwiring out when he reconnected your nerve circuits,” muttered Ratchet.

“Pure physiological reflex,” said Drift innocently.

“He saved your life,” guessed Optimus.

“Yep,” said Drift. “Makes for a great story to tell, don’t you think?”

Prowl opened his mouth, hesitated, then said, “And did he know you were a Decepticon when he treated you?”

The room went very quiet. A flash of something unidentifiable crossed Drift’s face, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword; but a moment later he smiled, cheerful as before.

“Smart mech!” he said. “I don’t normally _tell_ people that part—” Another brief tightening on his sword hilt. “—but yes, he could pretty much tell right away my laser core was built for war-class output—”

“Hold on, hold on, what,” said Bumblebee, throwing out his hands as though to stop an imaginary fight, “this guy was a Decepticon? And Prowl figured it out with—what, his ninja mind powers or something?”

“It was obvious once I put the pieces together,” said Prowl, which was a humblebrag if Bumblebee had ever heard one. “Ratchet mentioned a full-body overhaul, but then acted as though he regretted saying it, which was more suspicious than the information itself. Drift has told us himself he is on parole and under supervision from high command. His preference for swordsmanship aligns conveniently with the post-war firearm restrictions on Decepticons. And.” He paused. “I told all of you that he had a Cyber Ninja Temple bust marking him as a graduate of the program. But I never mentioned that I found the bust in a storage room with the badge of graduation scratched out, and when I asked who it belonged to they told me of the rogue shame of the Cyber Ninjas, one of the most feared Decepticons to fight in the war—Deadlock.”

“I’d say I haven’t heard that name in a while,” said Drift, bright and brittle, “but everyone seems determined to make sure that isn’t the case. Yep, that’s me! Got half-blown-up, found religion, changed my name, fell in love, served my time for all the mass slaughter and dead civilians—bit hypocritical of the Autobots on that last one if you ask me, but whatever—went on parole, and I’ve been a model citizen ever since. Mostly. Any further questions?”

His tone was perfectly friendly, but something about the atmosphere in the room reminded Bumblebee of a bomb about to go off. Ratchet was half out of his seat, eyes flitting back and forth between his conjunx and, well, everyone else.

Bulkhead raised his hand, as though he were in class. “You didn’t finish telling us about when you met Ratchet,” he said, and Drift blinked. Slowly, the tension eased out of him. 

“Right,” he said, “where was I? Oh, right—Strika had coralled the Autobots into a kettle and given them time to accumulate reinforcements in numbers so she could launch the ultra-grenades and effectively decimate them. I, being the little shit I was, had already decided I didn’t feel like watching a bunch of Autobots accumulate under my nose unharmed, so I’d bucked orders and taken my squadron around to do some damage. Well, Strika launched the ultra-grenades, the whole field blew up with us on it, and there I was with half my outer plating blown off, leaking oil from a dozen places no one should ever leak oil from. Primus, I thought for sure I was going to die.”

Everyone in the room was leaning in attentively; even Bumblebee, who could never pay attention to anything, found himself drawn in. Drift was way better at telling an exciting war story than Ratchet, who just grumbled about this or that unreasonable order he’d gotten or the supply shortages he’d had to work with.

“Ratchet showed up, of course, the field was covered with half-blown-up Autobots so they’d sent in a whole fleet of medics as quickly as possible. When they found me I was the only one of my squadron who had any chance of surviving my wounds. And I…” Drift sucked in a breath, gave a little laugh. “See, believe it or not, I was one of Megatron’s top killing machines. I was the best of the best. I’d never been in a situation where I seriously, actually thought I might die before, and now that it was upon me, I was _freaking out._ That’s what happens when you haven’t taken steps to align the energies of your spark with the greater universe—” Ratchet shook his head at him very minutely. He’d started holding Drift’s hand sometime when Bumblebee hadn’t noticed. “Uh, anyway. I was freaking out, half-conscious, begging Ratchet to save me, which he did—by the way, I hope you bots know how lucky you are to have such an extraordinary medic on your team—and honestly I can’t thank him enough for not going around telling people that the big bad Decepticon Deadlock cries like a protoform when he gets a little boo-boo.”

“Half your face was melted off,” said Ratchet, holding Drift’s hand tighter.

“Eh, details. So I was saying how I didn’t want to die, I wanted to live, and Ratchet said to me all stern, you know how he gets, ‘Then live,’ and something about his tone of voice—I’d think about those two words so often, in the future. Then he said, ‘If you want to live so bad, you know a battlefield isn’t the best place for it, right?’ and then carried on fixing me up until his superiors showed up and started picking scrap with him for fixing up a Decepticon. Which was about the time I passed out.”

“I woke up in a maximum security Autobot prison cell, all patched up and on the way to a full recovery. The general battlefield report was being beamed out to all Decepticon frequencies on registry, and I could see that I was on the list of reported dead. Which meant no one would come looking for me. I was doing a lot of thinking, you know, about what Ratchet said—reminded me of my Cyber Ninja training.” Here he addressed Prowl. “You know what one of the central tenets of the code is, right?”

“Yes,” said Prowl, catching on. “A warrior must never fear his own death, nor should he seek it.”

“Right,” said Drift. “But I’d started to disobey the first part, and that got me thinking about a lot of other things, and…” He rubbed at his face. “Whoops, we’re getting personal here. I don’t usually tell this much of the story, actually. Long story short, I broke out—” as though he hadn’t just said the words _maximum security_ “—never told the Decepticons I’d survived, went in search of some of my old teachers and from there some of _their_ old teachers, learned a great deal about my place in the universe and what I wanted from life, decided both sides were going about the war all wrong, and camped out on a backwater planet expanding my consciousness and growing my inner peace until it was over.”

He beamed. Ratchet rolled his eyes.

“What about Ratchet,” pressed Optimus.

“Yeah, you said you were going to tell us the story of how you two met,” said Bulkhead. “But you didn’t mention ever actually meeting up with him again!”

Bumblebee, actually, wanted to hear more cool war stories, nevermind his friends’ incomprehensible interest in the romance aspect. But Drift chuckled indulgently and stretched out his legs. “You kids are a real nosy bunch, huh?” he said, but there was no bite to it. “All right, let’s see… Not long after the war ended I decided to go out and try to do some good in the universe, you know, I thought it would be beneficial to my inner vibrations to do so. Everything was in turmoil while people tried to figure out how to settle down, I did quite a bit of saving civilians and slicing up evildoers… Mostly the latter, haha. Anyway, Ratchet had about the same idea but with less slicing, and I ran into him while doing protection work for a refugee camp not far from Cybertron. He recognized me from that one time, of course. We started traveling together for a while, and, well, I suppose my natural charm and many talents were just irresistible to—”

“Wrong,” said Ratchet, in a long-suffering voice as though they’d had this conversation many times before. “ _You_ started falling all over yourself to impress _me_.”

“Lies and slander.”

“Hours of drilling your flashiest sword forms _just_ outside my workshop say otherwise.”

“ _Anyway,_ ” said Drift, “one way or another, we had more and more of a _thing_ going, and that was pretty nice right up until Ratchet convinced me to turn myself in to the Autobots.” He shook his head, elbowing Ratchet. “I mean, can you believe it? Some husband you are!”

Ratchet kicked him. “ _I_ did not convince him,” he said, turning to his assembled teammates. “ _We_ had a lot of conversations about Drift’s past and accountability and atonement and all that fancy stuff and I asked him if he’d be happy living the rest of his life as a fugitive, _he_ came up with the answer himself.”

“Ugh, I hate that you’re always right,” said Drift dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Anyway, I turned myself in as the wanted war criminal Deadlock, bounced around a lot between jail and conscripted service into the rebuilding process—they didn’t really know what to do with me, I think—until Ultra Magnus passed the Reintegration Act and I’ve been on parole ever since, on the condition I use my powers for good and all that. That was when I got the full-body overhaul,” he added. “Mandatorily downgraded to a civilian model to hide my past and try to keep me from causing trouble. Still would have been before most of you in here came online. My goodness, you guys are young.”

“So what have you been up to since then?” said Bumblebee, sensing an opportunity for more cool stories.

“Well, first things first me and Ratchet made it official,” said Drift meditatively, which _wasn’t_ what Bumblebee had been asking about, “but aside from that I mostly just go around having adventures and slicing up evildoers, which is more or less what I was doing before turning myself in except now I have to report back to the Autobots and am being monitored whenever they can spare the personnel. Sometimes Ratchet takes a break from whatever he’s doing or finishes up a job he’s on and we have a little honeymoon,” he added, pinching Ratchet’s cheek, which Ratchet visibly hated. “I’m glad he’s with you guys right now, though. He seems to be in very good hands.”

“Well, we do our best,” said Optimus, sounding touched. Was _everyone_ smitten with this Drift guy? “How long do you think you’ll be sticking around for?”

“Well, now, I’m not sure,” said Drift speculatively, strumming a thumb over the ridges in one of his sword hilts, “the spacebus I was on to my next assignment made a stop in this star cluster so I took a mini quantum hopper over to Ratchet’s coordinates to say hi, I can head back in a few hours to catch the same bus I was on or I can stay on Earth until the next one comes through, which will be in about ten days by Earth time. What do you think, Ratty?” He took Ratchet’s hand and jiggled it affectionately. “I might run a little late to my assignment staying longer, but it’d be worth it, don’t you think?”

“Oh,” said Optimus, and looked down for a moment as though contemplating his words. When he looked back up he said. “That is… unless… you would want to stay here on Earth and help us fight the Decepticons?”

Drift stilled in surprise.

“I realize it’s a lot to ask,” said Optimus hastily, “I just—thought I’d float it by you, that’s all. You said it yourself, it’s a lot of work for us to stand up against Megatron with our limited combat capabilities, and the way you just decimated that junk monster means we’d have a _huge_ advantage on our side if you stuck around. And, I mean…” He tapped a hand nervously against his leg. “Not to beg or anything, but stopping Megatron is uh. Pretty important, to the fate of Cybertron, and all that.”

Drift’s mouth opened in contemplation; he looked back at Ratchet, who had gone quiet in thought. “What do you think?” he said, squeezing his hand. “I mean, I _could_ …”

“You’d get in trouble with High Command, though, wouldn’t you?” said Ratchet.

“Yep,” said Drift meditatively. “If they order me to leave Earth and I continuously disobey that order, once they get their hands on me they’d probably downgrade my parole from from level 3 to level 2, maybe even level 1. I’d be a whole lot less free to go wherever and do whatever I want.” He shrugged, very neutrally. “It’s a big decision.” Then his voice softened as he looked over at Ratchet. “If you ask me to, though…”

“I won’t make you do something that drastic on my account,” said Ratchet. “We—” He cleared his vocalizer. “Defeating Megatron is a big deal, and we’re pretty outgunned against the Decepticons. But we’ve also managed pretty well, so far.” He stared down at their linked hands, looking troubled. “I won’t force your decision. It’s up to you.”

“Hey,” broke in Bumblebee, rapping his knuckles against the concrete of the couch, “what are we, chopped fuel tubing? Ratchet’s not the only Autobot in this room, hello! We’re all fighting Megatron here, we should all get a say!”

“How about you marry him, then we’ll talk,” huffed Ratchet, but let go of Drift’s hand, a little self-consciously. Drift blinked, as though he’d just been reminded the rest of the room existed, then gave a bright grin.

“Ah, there’s still time to decide,” he said. “Let’s say I won’t take the same-day spacebus—that’ll give me ten days with you guys until the next one to figure out if I’m sticking around for good or not. Sounds good?”

“Sure,” said Optimus. There was a glint of determination in his eye, as though he was going to try very hard to get Drift to stay longer than ten days. Bulkhead, meanwhile, had perked up.

“Well, it’s nice that you’re sticking around longer,” he said. “It’s always great to have another Cybertronian to talk to, specially when they’re not trying to kill us! Want us to show you around Detroit?”

“If you’re staying over a while,” added Prowl, “I’d like to train my martial arts skills with you. It seems I could learn a great deal from someone so accomplished.”

“You bots are sweet,” said Drift, looking faintly amused and a little overwhelmed, “but right now I’d rather spend some time with Ratchet by ourselves. It’s been a while since we were able to catch up. How about it, Ratty?” Ratchet gave a grunt of acknowledgement. Drift’s head tilted to look sideways at Bumblebee. “ _Without_ any little yellow buggys invading our privacy.”

Bumblebee shrank down in his seat. “Sorry,” he mumbled, somewhere between defensive and contrite. Part of him was still thinking about how sharp that sword had been.

“I think we’ll go for a drive,” said Drift, getting up and stretching, before looking over at Ratchet. “Know any scenic spots around here?”

“I don’t really pay attention to the scenery when I go out,” grunted Ratchet, which sounded pretty unhelpful to Bumblebee, but Drift just took it in stride, looking around at everyone else.

“Any recommendations?”

“If you follow the main road along the lake, there are some lovely cliffs overlooking the view,” said Prowl. “I go there when I find myself in need of calming. It’s a very nice place.”

“Ooh,” said Drift happily. “Are there—” He hesitated a moment. “Are the vibrations there good?”

“Very,” said Prowl. “I always find myself feeling quite in harmony with the nature around me when I visit.”

“Oh, I can tell we’re going to get along,” said Drift, ruffling the top of Prowl’s head, and Prowl said humbly, “Think nothing of it,” while retreating in a fit of bashfulness. Drift clapped Ratchet on the shoulder and said, “Shall we go?”

“Right with you,” said Ratchet, and transformed, as did Drift; they drove out the main door, a banged-up old ambulance and a sleek racecar side by side. The sound of Drift’s voice saying “There’s still so many stories I haven’t told you from when you were in stasis, did I ever tell you about that adventure with the—” faded away in tandem with their engines as they sped off.

“Wow,” said Optimus, watching them go. “That Drift sure is something, huh.”

“Indeed,” said Prowl, touching his chevron where Drift’s hand had been. Bumblebee made a mental note to be sure to be present for the inevitable spectacle of Drift attempting to let Prowl down gently; that was going to be well worth watching. 

“Weird how they’re conjunxed,” observed Bulkhead, coming up behind them. “I mean, they don’t even seem to _like_ each other. All they do is bicker.”

“No, they like each other,” said Bumblebee darkly. “They’re _sparkbonded._ ”

All eyes swiveled to him just as he realized he probably shouldn’t have given away that tidbit of highly personal information he wasn’t even supposed to have found out in the first place. “Huh,” said Optimus, “really?” Prowl looked just a little bit crestfallen. “Whoa,” said Bulkhead meditatively. “That’s big.”

“Sure is,” said Bumblebee, “uh, don’t tell them I told you that, okay?”

Optimus gave a little sigh, as though realizing now that that information probably hadn’t been voluntarily shared in the first place. “I won’t,” he said, then turned and headed back into base. “All right, if Drift’s staying over we should set up a room for him. The nicer his accomodations, the more he might be tempted to stay long-term, so we’d better work on that. Bulkhead, can you help me out with getting one of the spare rooms in shape?”

“Sure thing, bossbot,” said Bulkhead, hurrying after Optimus.

“I’ll help,” volunteered Prowl. “I may be able to contribute on the the decor, given our apparently similar tastes.”

“You don’t think he’s going to want to stay in Ratchet’s room?” said Bumblebee, and everyone turned to look at him, and he tripped over himself to elaborate. “I mean, they’re conjunxed, it only makes sense. They might even want to—” he shuddered involuntarily “— _cuddle._ ”

“I really can’t picture Ratchet cuddling, so I’ll pretend you didn’t say that part,” said Optimus. “But, yeah, I guess it does make sense they’d want to share. We can ask them when they get back, how about it?”

“Got it, bossbot,” said Bulkhead dutifully, and Bumblebee turned back to the open road down which the couple had disappeared.

 _I just did you a favor,_ he thought very hard in their direction—without turning on his comms, because that would have earned him an asskicking, _so we’re even for all the snooping and prying and not believing you, right?_ Then he turned and went back inside the base.

**Author's Note:**

> my train of thought originally went "if drift shows up and is so cool and powerful OBVIOUSLY the autobots would want him to stay to help them -> he wouldn't though because that would change the plot and i want to structure this like an episode of the show where the status quo isn't changed -> okay i'll write about him declining to stay and going back to space -> wait i'm already an hour past my extended deadline and writing out his whole decision process is going to take way more words than i have left in me -> FUCK IT. open ending" but i think it works better that way
> 
> also since this fic is getting a lot of traffic i'm gonna plug another fic of mine that has gotten less attention, [check this one out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27959795) if you like tfp bulkhead and kobd and quietly emotional character studies
> 
> ANYWAY HOPE YOU ENJOYED if you did consider leaving me a comment telling me what you liked most also lmk if the characterizations were good because i STRUGGLED. thank you have a great day


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